


Destiny

by Michelle



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Torture, F/M, Healing, M/M, Orcs, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-03-24
Updated: 2008-03-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 15:08:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28958454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Michelle/pseuds/Michelle
Summary: When Legolas is captured by orcs, Aragorn rushes into danger to save his friend.
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Arwen Undómiel, Aragorn | Estel/Legolas Greenleaf
Kudos: 2





	Destiny

**Author's Note:**

> Title: Destiny  
> Author: Michelle  
> Summary: When Legolas is captured by orcs, Aragorn rushes into danger to save his friend.  
> Rating: R for torture and disturbing images  
> Warning: Angstfest, in case you consider that to be a bad thing. Also AU.  
> Disclaimer: Still not mine.  
> Author’s Note: Dear anonymous ficathon participant, I absolutely loved my assignment! Thank you for giving me such a wonderful scenario to play with. I hope you like the end result *holds breath*.

**Rivendell, TA 3018, December 24 th, evening**

She sat down next to him in silence, the movement of her limbs as quiet and graceful as ever. Her cheeks were flushed and her hair in slight disarray, because the wine was flowing freely in the Hall of Fire to give the fellowship a night to remember before they had to leave the next day. Someone not used to the soundless approach of elves might have been startled, but Aragorn sat as still as a statue, not taking his eyes off the figure he was observing in the distance.

“What are you thinking?” she asked in a low and melodious voice. She let her head fall onto his shoulder and his arm came up automatically to cradle her to his side. She let her eyes follow his gaze, falling on the prince at the edge of the forest.

“I am wondering whether his fingertips are soft or whether they are callused from all the archery he is doing.” The object of their perusal let another arrow fly. It whirred through the air and landed in the trunk of a tree, next to a dozen other arrows that had hit their mark with the same accuracy. The elf’s quiver seemed to be empty and he walked to the tree, worked the arrows free and started over, shooting arrow after arrow in an even rhythm, not missing his mark once.

Arwen chuckled quietly at Aragorn’s frank admission. “Maybe you should ask him,” she suggested.

Aragorn shook his head and sighed. “He ignores me; I am not even sure he knows I exist.” His eyes fastened on the prince again, admiring the proud stance, the elegant curve of his back when he sighted in on the tree and the way his brows drew together when he concentrated on his target.

“I have known you to be more perceptive than that. I think you misread him.”

“He wants to be alone. Why else would he be out here when everyone else is in the Hall of Fire, merrymaking?”

“Legolas is lonely, Aragorn. He does not find joy in singing or dancing and he does not know how to talk and joke with others. You do know that he has been hurt in the past?”

Aragorn nodded, but refrained from admitting that he had heard nothing but whispered rumors about Legolas’ past. The prince and his mother had been captured by a band of orcs and that fact alone made Aragorn shiver. There was much darkness in Legolas’ life, the scar under his eye was testament to that. Elves did not scar, their skin was free of any blemish. And yet, Legolas had been hurt to an extent that the scar refused to vanish. It saddened Aragorn that he could not simply brush away the scar tissue with a gentle touch.

Arwen did not elaborate, accepting Aragorn’s short nod as a sufficient answer. “He will never come to you on his own. You will have to take the first step.”

“I cannot. And after all, I have you to consider.”

“Oh no, Estel. Do not dare put this on my shoulders.” Arwen poked him lightly in the ribs. “We have known each other for many years and we have always been honest with each other. I will not hold you to old promises when they bring you nothing but heartache. I would have you follow your heart, not your strange mortal pride.”

Aragorn entangled himself from their loose embrace to look at her askance. “What are you saying?”

Now it was Arwen’s turn to sigh. “Life and fate rarely follow a straight line and it is foolish to think that what was true years ago will still hold true now. Our fates are entwined, Estel, but not in the way we both thought those many years ago. There was a time when I saw myself sitting beside you, holding court in Minas Tirith. When I close my eyes today I see another sitting with you. And do not tell me you do not know of whom I speak, because you see the same when you close your eyes.”

She felt the man stiffen next to her. “Do not be sad on my account. Do not ponder a future that will never be. You can love him, if you would only let yourself. And he already loves you, I am certain of it.”

It was in that moment that the elf a ways off turned and looked in their direction, his bow gripped tightly in his left hand. Legolas stared at them openly for a moment before he blinked and took off like a startled deer.

Aragorn cursed under his breath and Arwen was trying unsuccessfully to reign in her mirth. “You did not think he was unaware of our presence, did you?”

His answer was a colourful curse not usually spoken in the presence of a lady. It sent Arwen into fits of laughter.

**Parth Galen, TA 3019, February 26th**

“No!” Aragorn cried in frustration once Gimli had managed to break through the stupor that had taken hold of him while kneeling at Boromir’s side. It must have taken the dwarf quite a few tries, because the hand gripping Aragorn’s shoulder had tightened uncomfortably and the two hobbits behind Gimli looked about anxiously, the first signs of panic on their open faces.

The world rushed back into focus and he folded Boromir’s cooling hands over his heart, arranging the man’s body in a more dignified manner, and his hands lingered for his mind was not yet ready to part with the Gondorian.

Only then did he look about himself, noting for the first time the number of dead orcs lying about, noting the fact that the birds had taken up their song once more, noting absentmindedly that the rush of battle slowly left him. Still, his hands shook wildly from adrenaline.

His friends stood a few paces away from him in an attempt to give him space. Gimli was the nearest, his beard obscuring any emotion his face might have displayed. Behind him were Merry and Pippin, their faces showing sadness and ... guilt? He did not expect to see Frodo and Sam with the group, but there was one other face he wished to looked upon.

His heart began to race. “Where is Legolas?” Aragorn asked, trying to school his voice into not betraying the sudden feeling of vertigo that had gripped him. He had never worried about the elf, at least not were his fighting skills were concerned, but to see him absent now caused all kinds of horrible images to appear in the man’s mind. To envision Legolas’ body dead at the hands of orcs seemed more that he could endure.

Pippin opened his mouth in answer, but Gimli was faster. “He’s gone.” His voice was nothing more but a whisper, lacking the usual booming tone, and Aragorn had to strain his hearing to even understand him.

“Gone?” He could hear his own voice shake pitifully and feared his companions might hear every promise he had never uttered to Legolas in that one word. He made to stand but felt unsteady on his feet. “Gone”, he repeated, quieter this time, and looked once more on the carnage around them, fearing to see a wisp of golden hair or a patch of pale skin.

Pippin was the first to understand where Aragorn thoughts had taken him and made to alleviate the man’s fears. “He’s not dead, Strider.” He was unprepared for the look of desperate hope in the man’s eyes and had to avert his gaze. “The orcs took him.” Pippin looked at his feet and yelped in surprise when Aragorn took hold of him, shaking the fragile body vigorously.

Pippin was too shocked to speak further and Aragorn shook him like a doll. It was Gimli who stepped between the two and eventually dragged Aragorn bodily away from the hobbit. The dwarf, in an attempt to divert Aragorn’s attention from the frightened hobbit, hit the man square in the face.

The punch had the desired effect. Aragorn sat dazed for a moment and then gingerly licked his split lip.

“Sorry,” he said to Pippin who relaxed despite the monosyllabic excuse. Aragorn spit out blood and then simply sat on the forest floor, his head in his hands.

“What happened?” he asked without looking at anyone.

Now Merry spoke up. “The orcs were coming for Pippin and me. We couldn’t outrun them, so we stood to fight them. But Legolas intercepted the orcs. He took an arrow and when the leader came up to him he claimed to have the ring. He would deliver it only to the orcs’ master and only if the rest of the company was spared.”

Aragorn tried to will away the despair upon hearing these news. “They took him alive?”

Merry nodded. “He was alive and walking under his own power when they left.”

He wouldn’t for long. Aragorn’s features turned grim as he turned his eyes on his three remaining companions. They looked at him, waiting out his silence until it dawned on Aragorn that they waited for his decision.

He wanted to leave this place as soon as possible and pursue the orcs that had taken Legolas, but he knew they had to pay their last respects to Boromir before moving on. As desperate as he was to save Legolas from the orcs’ grasp, he knew he would never forgive himself if he left Boromir’s body like this, at the disposal of any wild animal that was attracted by the smell of decay.

Because they lacked the tools and the time to give Boromir a proper burial they laid him in one of the Elven boats, arrayed his possessions around him and delivered him to the water, following the small vessel with their eyes as it hurried south, gaining speed as it moved to the centre of the stream.

Only the bare essentials were spoken between the four companions and a sombre mood hung in the air that could not only be attributed to Boromir’s death. The fellowship had fractioned and the four remaining members felt a sense of loss and uncertainty. Only Aragorn’s mind was made up already.

“I will follow the orcs that took Legolas”, he said, effectively breaking the silence between them once the small boat had vanished from sight.

Merry was not convinced. “We will never catch up with them.” He looked at his small legs as if to emphasize his point. “They have a headstart and Pippin and I cannot keep up with your long strides.”

Aragorn had to smile despite the seriousness of the situation. “That is why I said  _I_ will follow the orcs. It should be no hardship to track them, but I can move faster on my own.”

“No way!” Gimli stomped his axe on the ground and glowered at Aragorn. “How do you suppose you will free Legolas if you are alone?”

“I will think about that when the situation presents itself. But I will be faster on my own and every hour Legolas stays their captive is an hour too long.”

Gimli still shook his head, unwilling to accept Aragorn’s plan. “Gimli, whether you agree or not, I will go on alone. You can try to keep up with me, but it will avail you nothing. Time is of the essence.”

“Mmpfh, I feel rather left behind,” the dwarf grumbled, but in the end had no choice but to conceed. “We will follow you and eventually we will catch up with you. I refuse to accept that the fellowship should fall apart like this.”

“Then it is agreed.” Aragorn wasted no further time. He checked his weapons, nodded at the hobbits, clapped the dwarf on the shoulder and disappeared between the trees, following the obvious trail the band of orcs had left.

~*~

He ran. Hours later, when the sun started the set and the land was dipped in a blood-red light, Aragorn still ran. Tirelessly he pushed on, the fear for Legolas ever present in his mind. It was the image of the elf’s broken body that made him take another step when his feet felt unsteady. It was the image of blood running down Legolas’s temple that forced him to get up again when he had stumbled over a rabbit’s hole in the dark. It was the image of Legolas’ pleading eyes that made him whisper secret promises into the night air, which he had never dared utter aloud in the presence of the elf.

Aragorn did not know whether Legolas was still alive. He knew full well that orcs were cruel beings, who tortured their victims for sport, skinned them, even ate them alive, nibbling at their arms and legs until their prey died from shock or bloodloss. It was even worse if they caught an elf. Their hatred for the eldar knew no boundaries.

Legolas had suffered at their hands before and it made Aragorn ill to realize that he had gone knowing to his fate this time, sacrificing his own life to secure safe passage for the rest of the fellowship. He was certain Legolas prayed for death right now, but even though Aragorn’s mind told him it was the preferable fate, his heart disagreed. He would not be pursuing the orcs if he had no hope to free Legolas alive.

The man pushed on for most of the night. First he was running swiftly, then walking in longs strides and in the darkest hour of the night he was stumbling onwards, keeping his eyes focused on the trail the orcs had left. The deep imprints of their careless feet were hard to miss, even in the dim light of the night.

Shortly before sunrise, he was unable to go on. The thought that the orcs had bedded down as well, giving him a chance to gain on them, allowed him to close his eyes for a moment and replenish his strength.

The warming sun woke him aprubtly and he chastised himself for truly falling asleep. Aragorn looked to the horizon, where he suspected the orcs to be. He squinted in the glare and meant to see something move far off in the distance. But his mortal eyes could not cover such a distance and he resumed his pursuit with nothing but hope that it was indeed the group of orcs he had spotted far ahead.

Last night, Legolas’ fate had haunted his thoughts. Now, in the cleansing light of morning it was his own inaction that caused him heartache. For long years had he known Legolas, who travelled the forests like a silent predator, rarely seeking the company of any beyond his close family. His own captivity and the subsequent loss of his mother had made him reclusive and even when Aragorn had felt the first stirrings of love for the elf within his heart he had kept quiet, respecting the invisible line the prince had drawn about his person.

He cursed his courtesy and called it cowardice. If things went ill, if Legolas died, then Aragorn would be haunted by  _what ifs_ for the rest of his life. He would marry Arwen. He would even be happy with her, he was sure. But he would wonder, always wonder if his life could have turned out differently with Legolas by his side. If the elf would have wanted him at all...

If Legolas lived, Aragorn would find the answer to that question. That was the vow he made while he ran across the plains, ever following the deep footprints of orcs. Sometimes Aragorn believed to see Legolas’ trail as well, faint and almost imperceptible, and Aragorn rejoiced at the knowledge that Legolas was still walking.

It took another day, another night and most of the following day to gain enough on the band of orcs that he could spot them not too far ahead. They were just making camp within a small copse of trees and the fact that most orcs simply dropped where they stood attested to the fact how hard the whip of their leader was driving them. They were beasts more than anything else and so Aragorn could detect no general order to their camp. To his eyes it seemed chaotic and that made counting their number quite difficult. Aragorn tried several times and in the end decided there must be about twenty-five orcs ahead, but he could not be certain that he had not counted some of them twice.

The orcs’ camp appeared to be a black pit: the orcs were as dark as their gear. Like a pack of rats they crawled the earth and drew darkness around them. All of a sudden a ray of light emenated from their midst and Aragorn’s breath caught. He could not see much from this distance, could not see the elf’s face or his injuries, could not see whether he limped or swayed, could not see whether his clothes were ripped or his cheeks bruised. He could recognize Legolas’ form, though, the golden hair and the pale skin, and he thanked the Valar to find the elf still alive.

Every hour Legolas had to remain in the orcs’ grasp pained Aragorn, but he knew he had to wait until night had completely fallen. During the day he could not hope to take out that many orcs and live to tell the tale. Even under the cover of darkness, when he could kill some of their number while they strayed from camp, he feared that such a feat was impossible. Maybe he should have listened to the dwarf who had warned him about exactly that problem.

Aragorn crept silently nearer, using whatever cover he could find. He came to a stop no more than ten feet from the closest orc, hiding behind some boulders that offered sufficient cover. Now that it was fully dark, the orcs had started nothing less than a bonfire, illuminating the small clearing with an eerie light. They had ripped out whole trees, roots and all. The wood burned madly and the flames danced nervously, licking high into the sky.

His earlier count had not been too far off, because now he could spot twenty one orcs in the vicinity of the fire. Another was standing a little ways off, next to their captive. When Aragorn saw the elf, he had to avert his eyes. His wrists were bound tightly, leaving the abused skin raw and bloody, and the rest of the rope had been looped around a tree branch, forcing Legolas on his toes. The elf had been stripped completely, and his first look upon the elf’s pale, almost fluorescent skin in the firelight made Aragorn’s breath catch in his throat. Even like this, bound and bloodied, he was beautiful: slim and tall, graceful and strong.

Aragorn forced himself to look upon the elf with the eyes of a healer, trying to determine in what shape he had found the elf. He saw a wound in the elf’s side and supposed it was the arrow Merry had mentioned. Apparently it had stopped bleeding long ago, but dried blood was everywhere on the elf’s stomach. There were some welts running along Legolas’ chest, but even though some leaked a fine line of blood, they did not look overly serious. What worried Aragorn was the elf’s left hand. He could not see it clearly from his position, but something seemed off. His fingers were not in the position they should be... Still, from what he was seeing Aragorn was quite certain the elf was not past saving. Now, if he could only get to him!

His perusal was interrupted when some agitation went through the orcs. Their leader, a cruel-looking giant, circled Legolas and then pushed the tip of a whip into the open wound in Legolas’ left side. The elf jerked away as far as the bonds allowed, but he did not cry out nor acknowledge the orc in any other way. His eyes stayed half-lidded, not looking at the leader. In fact, he seemed to look at no one and Legolas’ vacant stare frightened Aragorn more than obvious injuries he had seen on the elf.

“Give us the ring,” the orc leader demanded in a harsh voice that carried easily to Aragorn’s position. He backhanded the elf and Aragorn had to restrain himself from running to Legolas’ aid. That would solve nothing. The orcs would not have a hard time killing him since his skill in battle would not help him with their sheer number. That knowledge did not comfort him as the orc continued to hurt Legolas into answering his questions.

“The ring!” He demanded once again, shaking out the whip and letting it fall onto Legolas’ shoulder and chest. Legolas shook his head, but the movement was so small it might have been an unconscious reaction. The orc did not recognize it at all and let the whip fall again. This time it broke the skin and Legolas’ head fell forward so that his hair obscured his face. Aragorn stared at the line of blood that welled up instantly and longed to wipe it away.

The orc went on, demanding answers, whipping the elf, ramming his fist into Legolas’ abdomen and finally forcing his head back by gripping his tangled hair. The motion should have forced the elf to look into the orc’s eyes, but again Legolas’ gaze seemed distant and unfocused and he reacted neither to the taunts nor the demands the orc spat in his face.

There was a commotion behind the orc and elf suddenly, and Aragorn could see orcs getting to their feet, shuffling around and trying to reach both.

“Haven’t eaten for days. We have tasty elfflesh and you won’t let us have it,” one of the smaller orcs all but whined, his back bent in a show of submission even if his words were anything but.

The leader gave him a push backwards. “It’s not for eating.” His voice was loud, meaning to be heard by the whole group.

“But it won’t talk,” another put in. “We might as well eat it.” He took a step forward, but the leader’s raised whip interrupted his motion. The orc stopped, but did not take his eyes from Legolas, licking his lips in anticipation.

“No!” The leader threatened the orcs again, but they would not back down now. Aragorn could not say where and when exactly it started, but from one moment to the next orcs were fighting each other, drawing weapons, brawling. Some were trying to get to the unresponsive elf, while others were trying to push their companions back. 

Aragorn could not believe his luck. The orcs were eliminating themselves before his eyes. He saw one of the creatures go down, a huge dagger sticking out of its jugular. Another one drew the dagger out even as the orc fell to the ground, breathing his last. Their bloodlust was awakened and at the rate there were going Aragorn only needed to wait until they had killed one another.

It would have worked, had not one orc gained Legolas’ side, a dagger in its hand that was slippery from blood. Murder was in its small beady eyes and this time Aragorn was unable to stay his hand. Without thought he left his hiding place and rushed headlong into battle, an enraged cry on his lips. He slashed at everything that moved, trying to position himself between Legolas and the enraged band of orcs. He moved fast, turning and sidestepping, crouching and jumping, cutting orc after orc like a reaper bringing in his harvest. Aragorn felt the sharp pain of metal slicing through flesh, at his sword arm no less, but the pain vanished as soon as he concentrated on the orcs once more, ignoring his body’s discomfort with practiced ease.

His own breathing was loud in his ears when he finally noticed a lull in the fight. Dead orcs were all around him, some were missing arms, some legs, some even their heads. He turned in a circle, pointing his sword at whatever invisible enemy remained, but he could see none. His eyes fell on Legolas’ still form and he realized that he could now free his friend. His sword arm dropped and he took a step forward meaning to close the distance between them. He reached for the small hunting knife tucked in his belt, but never finished the move. He meant to see something flicker in Legolas’ empty eyes, some form of recognition or warning and in that instance a tingle started to crawl up and down his spine.

Instinct made Aragorn raise his sword arm again and he turned around swiftly, bringing up his weapon just in time to block an attack that would have split his head. Still, the sheer force applied by the orc drove Aragorn to his knees and when he looked up he recognized who his attacker was: the leader, the giant. The beast stood at least two heads taller than Aragorn.

He was tired, but rage gave him the strength to stand again and attack the orc in return. It felt like he was fighting a wall of muscle. The orc had no tactic, no strategy, no skill with its weapon whatsoever. But he was incredibly strong, blocking each of Aragorn’s assault with clumsy moves that were effective only because of the inhuman strength behind them. Aragorn’s sword could not reach that far, his blade seemed unable to pierce the orc’s leathery skin and the longer Aragorn circled the orc the more his desperation grew.

He managed to draw blood once, twice, but the orc was unaffected by the wounds. He pushed Aragorn back relentlessly, forcing him into a defensive position and Aragorn had to realize that he could not win like this. The momentary lack in concentration caused him to misstep. He fell backwards, landing heavily on the ground and realized that this clumsy mistake could easily be the death of him, but the thought was stopped abruptly when the orc towered above him, breathing into Aragorn’s face and causing his stomach to rebel.

“You’ll die now human,” the beast sneered and then grabbed him by the collar. His mind was racing, trying to come up with a solution, but at the same time his body refused to cooperate, feeling too tired to start another attack.

But there was... one last chance, one he could take. His fingers searched wildly and then closed around the small knife at his belt. It was meant for nothing more than skinning animals, but it would have to do now. He raised the small weapon, gathered his strength and pushed it forward with all his might. The blade pierced skin, then bone, then grey-matter and he saw how the orc’s eyes went wide. He lifted his other hand to help with the task and with both hands he forced the dagger deeper into the orc’s forehead until nothing but the hilt was still visible.

The beast’s eyes rolled and it slumped forward, refusing to die instantly. Already Aragorn’s hands were drenched in blood and more of the sticky substance splattered on his face, but he gave the knife another push, causing the orc’s body to seize up like a puppet on a string. With a desperate push Aragorn freed himself from under the orc and rolled to the side, watching the orc still and die.

He felt the need to lie motionless and simply breathe for a moment, but the need to get to Legolas’ side was more urgent. Aragorn did not feel safe enough to draw his dagger out of the orc’s head, giving in to the implausible fear that the orc might rise and attack if the weapon was removed. Instead, he picked up a crude dagger from the forest ground; the orc it had belonged to would not need it anymore. He scrambled to his feet and stumbled over to the elf’s prone form, encircling Legolas’ naked body with his arms in the hope of taking some pressure off Legolas’ wrists. His eyes fell on Legolas' hand, the one he had not seen clearly before, and he swallowed convulsively. Three fingers were broken, the long and usually graceful limbs sticking out at odd angles. That it was the left hand was no consolation at all – Aragorn knew Legolas used both hands equally in a fight.

He concentrated on the matter at hand and attempted to free the elf from his bonds. Aragorn lifted the dagger to cut the rope and tried to ignore how Legolas shied away from the weapon as it appeared in his vision.

“Shhh,” Aragorn could not help but murmur into Legolas’ ear as the elf slumped forward into Aragorn’s waiting arms when the rope was cut. Legolas’ arms fell uselessly to his sides and his knees buckled under him. He would have fallen had not Aragorn tightened his hold on the elf to keep him upright.

He was very aware of Legolas’ naked body, of the way his tangled hair tickled his nose as the elf’s head fell naturally onto his shoulder as if it had always been meant to rest there. He felt Legolas’ breath hot and promising on his neck and reacted instantly to the shiver racing through Legolas’ form. He sucked in a sharp breath and willed his bodily reaction away. He needed to see to Legolas’ injuries.

“I have you,” he felt compelled to say, realizing the double meaning of his words only after he had spoken them aloud. He sensed rather than heard Legolas sigh a quiet “Aragorn”, causing goosebumps to appear on his neck where the whispered word had caressed his skin. Legolas was trying to gather his feet under him and stand on his own and the attempt gave Aragorn hope, even if the elf was still leaning on him. 

Aragorn should have known that Legolas first concern would not be his own health. “Frodo?” the elf questioned quietly and Aragorn was quick to assure him that his sacrifice had not been for naught.

“Frodo is well.” He neglected to mention Boromir’s death or Frodo’s and Sam’s departure. There would be time to discuss that later. At least, that was his hope.

“Good.” Aragorn had believed he already carried all of the elf’s weight, but upon hearing the positive reply, the elf seemed to let go of every bit of strength he still possessed and Aragorn had to tighten his grip once more else Legolas should fall and injure himself further.

“Why did you do that? Why did you let the orcs take you?” The question had been on the tip of his tongue since Pippin had told him of Legolas’ capture. It had fueled his fear during the last days, but he hoped his question had not carried any of the anger he felt at Legolas for putting himself into such danger. To make sure, he freed one of his hands and let his fingers trail through the elf’s hair. He could pretend he was checking for hidden wounds, nothing more.

Legolas did not have to think about his answer. “To keep you safe.” He must have interpreted Aragorn sharp intake of breath as disapproval, because he retaliated with a quiet, “to keep you all safe.”

Aragorn did not dare question Legolas further about his motives, not yet ready to hear what the elf might have to say. Instead, he addressed the matter at hand. “Let me take care of you.” Aragorn adjusted his grip so that he could carry Legolas away from the orcs. He was not prepared for the cry of agony that left Legolas’ lips as soon as Aragorn encircled the elf’s shoulders to lift him from the ground. The elf in his arms grew stiff with pain and panted heavily. Only then did Aragorn dare to look closer upon Legolas’ back. It was a bloody mess, whipmarks reaching down as far as Legolas’ buttocks and leaving almost no skin untouched. Aragorn balled his hands into fists and wondered if there was a spot on the elf’s body where his touch would not hurt.

“Can walk,” the elf said quietly once he had his breathing under control again and Aragorn could think of no other option than to take Legolas up on his word.

“Only a few steps. I will help you.” Together they made their way over to the boulders that had offered Aragorn cover before. The elf’s progress was slow and Aragorn wondered how he had managed to keep up with the orcs’ cruel pace. His wounds obviously pained him, but he tried to swallow his cries for Aragorn’s sake, who in turn despised the fact that Legolas so desperately tried to be strong in front of him.

Once they had reached their goal, Aragorn carefully lowered Legolas to the ground and helped him to lie on his side as that seemed to be the one position that did not pain him overly much. Aragorn had left most of his gear here, but he needed to make a short trip over to the orcs’ camp nonetheless. It would be much easier to start a fire here if he had some burning wood already.

“Don’ go,” Legolas whispered, desperation in his voice when he noticed Aragorn turning away from him. The plea caused Aragorn to pause and look at Legolas. The elf held his gaze for the first time and Aragorn was amazed by the wealth of emotion he could see in the pale-blue depths. They were glazed, surely caused by pain and fever. He had never seen the elf look at him – at anyone – so unguarded and it made his heart hammer in his chest.

“Rest, I will be back in a moment,” he assured the elf, who accepted Aragorn’s words and closed his eyes. Aragorn shrugged out of his coat and draped it over Legolas’ naked form. Even if the chill of the night did not affect Legolas, the garment would hopefully make him feel less exposed.

Aragorn was as quick as he had promised to be. He brought back some burning wood and started a small fire. He unpacked his gear and looked at the provisions that were still at his disposal. He wished to have more of the willowbark and longed for a lot more bandages, but it was not the first time that he had to make do with insufficient supplies. Nor was it likely to be the last.

Once Aragorn had everything he needed and knew he could not delay the inevitable any longer, he approached Legolas. He kneeled next to him and pushed down the coat a little.

“I will tend your wounds now.”

“Why bother?” Legolas voice was surprisingly strong and Aragorn was appalled to see a faint smile play around the elf’s mouth.

“Why...? You hurt Legolas, let me help you.”

“Let me leave. Should have done so years ago” the elf admitted. Aragorn was struck silent by the cool manner in which Legolas talked about his own death. He had heard about elves leaving this world willingly, embracing death like a long lost friend. However, he refused to let such happen now, to Legolas no less. 

He took up a bandage and a small surgical knife, effectively ignoring Legolas’ wish to be left alone. “Where do you want me to start?”

Legolas looked at him aghast. “Why do you do that?”

The question made Aragorn smile. After all, the answer seemed more than obvious to him. “To keep you safe.”

Legolas fell silent upon hearing the words and made no protest when Aragorn approached him once more. The man let his eyes wander over the elf’s abused body, trying to decide which hurt to address first. He gave Legolas half of what was left of the willowbark, but taking a closer look at both his back and his mangled hand, he realized that nothing short of knocking Legolas out would deaden him to his pain. And maybe even that would not work fully.

He sighed and decided to start with Legolas’ back. He helped Legolas to turn as far on his stomach as he felt able and then took a wet cloth to the elf’s back to wipe away most of the blood. If the pain alone did not push one into shock, then a whipping usually was not life-threatening. The blood-loss was surely managable, even if Legolas’ back was gruesome to look at. He heard Legolas suck in a breath when he first touched the wounds on his back, but the elf soon rallied and kept quiet.

Aragorn, knowing the powers of distraction, kept a flow of words going, even if Legolas did not participate in their conversation. He talked about Gimli’s enraged reaction when he left the rest of the fellowhip behind and had to chuckle at the memory of Gimli stomping his axe like a petulant child would stomp its foot. He informed Legolas of his pursuit of the orcs and how he had wished to find the elf still alive. His monologue slowed when he had freed Legolas’ back of enough blood to notice the older scars that marred the elf’s skin. Thick cords of scar tissue ran all across his back and Aragorn could not help letting his finger trace one of the long scars, causing a shiver run up Legolas’ spine in return.

He had known of Legolas’ captivity, had heard rumors of how he and his mother had been abducted by orcs. It had taken Kind Thranduil’s soldiers almost two weeks to find both queen and prince. Aragorn had known that the queen had not survived that encounter, but what he had not known was how close Legolas had come to following her. He admired the prince’s strength to remain in Arda. That seemed to be an ongoing fight for Legolas, as the lasting scars on his body proved.

Aragorn worked a soothing salve into the wounds and hoped they would close without further help. Meanwhile, the willowbark had done its work and Legolas was able to lie on his back. The pain was managable, he said and Aragorn had no choice but to believe him.

There was a wound on Legolas left side. It was the one the orc leader had so cruelly unitilized to cause Legolas pain. “Merry said you were hit by an arrow?” Aragorn asked while carefully probing the edge of the wound.

Legolas nodded.

“Were you able to remove it?” Aragorn inquired further, but already suspected what the answer would be.

“One orc... drew it out,” Legolas provided and tried not to shy away from Aragorn’s touch. The man nodded thoughtfully, mentally preparing himself for what he had to do. Orcs were known for tying the tips only loosely to their arrows. It would cause the tip to remain in the flesh if the arrow was removed, thus causing even more damage. Legolas’ wound was red and inflamed, but even while pressing gently around the wound he could detect no foreign object. Still, it had to been cleansed sufficiently and while doing that it was prudent to check whether part of the arrow remained within Legolas’ body.

Chills were running through Legolas’ fevered body and Aragorn knew that time was of the essence. The elf needed sleep to heal, not more pain. But he needed to take care of the arrow wound and his hand before he could let Legolas be for the moment. He wiped the wound clean, prodded the skin again, but his first impression prevailed. He could not feel the arrowtip, but that did not mean that it was not there.

He held the small surgical knife to the fire and while it cooled he glanced at Legolas, waiting for the permission to proceed. The elf visibly rallied his strength before nodding, but Aragorn could already see that Legolas’ energy was nearly spent. He would not hold out much longer.

Aragorn cut the wound open and was amazed at Legolas’ stamina. He had seen hardened soldiers beg for mercy during such operations, lashing out at whoever was near. He clearly remembered one of Thengel’s closest advisors breaking the nose of a young assistant when they had to cut an arrow out of his thigh. Legolas tried to keep his body as still as possible, knowing that his cooperation – however painful – would help Aragorn be quick about it. And he was. He did not search long before finding that part of the arrowhead truly had remained in the wound. He reached for his pincers, trying to ignore Legolas’ harsh breathing, and dug out the roughly shaped tip. He threw the culprit aside and held a bandage against the freshly bleeding wound, applying pressure. Only now could he spare the time to look at Legolas, whose face was bathed in sweat while his eyes were tightly closed.

One hand remained on Legolas’ wound, but Aragorn could not resist lifting the other to the elf’s face. He gently traced the faint scar under Legolas’ left eye, just as he had imagined in Rivendell so many moons ago. The scar did not vanish, but the elf’s lower lid twitched. The touch roused Legolas, but he lacked the strength to open his eyes fully.

“Damn. Hurts.” Legolas voice sounded alien, as his words were slurred and raspy. Aragorn took Legolas’ shaking right hand and pressed in onto the wound. When he was satisfied that Legolas could still apply enough pressure in his weakened state, he took his water skin, helped Legolas raise his head a little and let him drink his fill. 

Even the water did not do much for reviving Legolas’ spirits now. His energy was utterly spent and the hand that had closed around his side wound only moments before fell uselessly to his side.

“We are almost through,” Aragorn tried to soothe his friend, but no reaction was forthcoming. The elf’s eyes were closed once more, but his hitched breathing suggested that he was at least partially conscious still. “Rest a bit while I bandage your chest.”

In truth, he needed the break as much as Legolas. The elf’s pain did not leave him unaffected and he hoped bandaging Legolas’ back and the side wound would help him regain at least some of his calm before he turned to the broken bones in Legolas’ left hand. He eyed the limb in question with worry. His index finger, his ring finger and his little finger had been broken; the last apparently in two places. He feared the bones had already started to knit and he would have to break them again to set them properly. Nothing he wished to do out in the wilds, without sufficient light or even someone to assist him, for he feared a mistake on his part might cause Legolas to lose the use of his hand.

In the circle of their fire he searched for small twigs that he could use to splint Legolas’ fingers. When he had found three that answered his purpose, he tried to rouse Legolas enough to prepare him for what was to come.

“Legolas, I will tend your hand now.” 

He received no coherent answered other than a pensive “mhmm” from Legolas. The elf let his head fall to the side and Aragorn had no difficulty seeing the madly pulsing vein at the side of his throat.

“Now or never,” he mumbled to himself, took up Legolas’ left hand and started to probe the bone of his index finger. He let the bone roll between his own thumb and forefinger, trying to feel the break. It had not started to heal yet and Aragorn breathed a sigh of relief.

He gripped the limb with both hands and began carefully shifting the bone, trying to find its natural place. The feeling of bone grating against bone was sickening, even to Aragorn who did not feel the pain of it.

Legolas’ body began to shift restlessly as soon as Aragorn started to work on the finger. His weak attempt to retrieve his hand was born from instinct and could not deter Aragorn, but the obvious sounds of agony coming from the prince almost managed to stay his hand. A cry of pure torment escape the elf’s lips when the bones in his index finger shifted together and Aragorn splinted them quickly.

Two more fingers to go and even now Aragorn was shaking from the emotional strain this was having on him. A quick glance at Legolas proved him to be in the same state of semi-consciousness that had gripped him while Aragorn had tended the arrow wound. But if Aragorn hoped that this might turn out in his favour, he was sadly mistaken.

Probing the ring finger soon made it clear that the bone had started to knit and would have to be rebroken. Aragorn grasped the finger firmly and tried to image how much force he would have to apply to break the bone cleanly – and quickly. The sickening sound of bone breaking was tuned out by Legolas’ reawakened ability to speech.

“Aragorn,” he pleaded silently, repeating the name and over as if it was the only thing occupying his mind. He tugged at his hand again, growing ever more desperate as Aragorn set the bone and splinted the finger. 

Aragorn looked up and saw the elf’s eyes opened to slits. Tears were running down his cheeks and Aragorn could not help it. He leant down and kissed the elf on the forehead. His lips lingered there while his mind tried to forget that the little finger was still waiting to be set. For a moment he simply enjoyed the fact that Legolas’ restless body seemed to quiet under Aragorn’s affectionate gesture.

“Only one more,” he murmured as if it was a secret of upmost importance. “You have strength for one more.” It was more hope than statement.

The little finger proved difficult only because of the delicacy of the limb and the fact that it was broken twice. Having lived through two of these procedures already, Aragorn felt more able to set the bone swiftly. Still, Legolas could not endure more and his desperate cries for Aragorn to stop burnt themselves into Aragorn’s memory. He did stop only when he had finished his task, never realizing that he himself was crying hot tears of despair by now. He splinted that finger as well, helped Legolas to lie on his left side and soothed the elf until he fell into a fitful sleep that seemed insufficient in helping the prince to heal.

He watched the elf’s sleeping body for a while, unable to take his eyes off this enticing sight. It was a rare opportunity that he could simply look his fill. Legolas was ever observant to not let his guard down, and even during their quest Aragorn could not shake the impression that Legolas had never slept.

Now however, Aragorn could drink in the elf’s beauty. It did not matter to him that sometime during his captivity Legolas had bitten his lower lip so hard that it was bloody and swollen. It did not matter to him that Legolas’ cheeks were unnaturally flushed. It did not matter to him that most of the elf’s body seemed to be swathed in bandages now. What mattered was the fact that Legolas was mere inches away from Aragorn and even if he feared invading the other’s personal space by touching his lips or his eyelids or the curiously pointed ears, he could look. He stared mesmerized at the slightly parted lips and lent down, trying to feel on his own skin how Legolas breathed in and out, his breath as hot as his fevered body. He marvelled at the high cheekbones that gave Legolas his noble look. And he admired the elf’s eyes, framed by the elegant curve of his brows. From time to time, Legolas frowned in his sleep when a wave of pain travelled through his body, but it did not take away from his beauty in Aragorn’s mind.

He could have watched and observed until the sun came up, but he was painfully aware of the two dozen dead orcs lying only a few feet away. With a sigh, he checked Legolas’ vitals one last time and then stood. He made his way over to the orcs’ camp, resigned to the fact that he would have to do something about the bodies. The fire was still burning, albeit not as madly as before, and Aragorn began the grisly task of dragging and throwing the bodies into the flames. It was hard work, as the bodies were heavy and unyieldy, and Aragorn was sweating profusely after only a few minutes. His only reward were two decent throwing daggers he found amongst the carnage. They were man-made and had probably been looted. It was hard-learned lesson that one could never have enough weapons, so Aragorn decided to add the daggers to his own gear.

When he returned to Legolas side he noticed that dawn was almost upon them and cursed himself for taking so long with the dead when there was a living being here that needed his care. He sat down next to Legolas’ prone form and took a long drink from his water skin.

Legolas had changed much overnight, and not for the better. Aragorn frowned upon seeing the prince’s unmoving body. The signs of fever had vanished, instead Legolas’ skin had lost all color. Even in the dim firelight the web of blue veins under Legolas’ transluscent skin was easily visible. Aragorn felt for a pulse at the elf’s neck and was shocked to have such a hard time finding it. It was almost imperceptible, only a tiny and weak  _thump_ against his finger. He had never seen a man with a pulse that slow and weak wake and live.

Legolas was no man, though. He could take much more than a mortal body and indeed a cursory glance at his wounds proved that they looked as they should. The inflammation of the arrow wound was receding, his back was clean and the hand... well, only time could tell. Legolas should not be trapped in unconsciousness. He should have made progress, should have woken, should have asked for water and maybe a bit of bread.

Legolas had done none of these things and that made Aragorn think of the stubborness of an Elven mind. The elf had made it clear that he meant to leave, but Aragorn had brushed his wishes away. It had availed him nothing, it seemed, for Legolas’ mind was set. He was leaving. Dying, whether his body’s injuries demanded it or not and Aragorn felt powerless in the face of Elven fading.

“You cannot die,” he told the unresponsive elf, never noticing how his own voice shook. “I never got around to tell you...” Here he broke off, feeling cowardly for almost speaking those words to someone who could not hear them. He wanted to say them, desperately, but he wanted to look Legolas in the eye. Wanted to see whether his admission would cause a reaction in the blue orbs.

“Arwen said you could love me.” He frowned, realizing he sounded like a petulant child. Arwen...

An idea came to him and he grabbed for his pack, digging frantically in its depths. He found what he was searching for in the deepest folds of his gear and looked at the bundle with a critical eye. The leaves were dried expertly, even if they were few. Aragorn held the plants to his nose and inhaled deeply, marvelling at the fact that some of the potent perfume still remained.

Arwen had given the athelas to him shortly before the fellowship had departed. “Trust in the strength of your hands. Do not be afraid to use it,” she had said and had folded his hands around the dried leaves. Aragorn had assumed he would one day have to use the athelas on Frodo. That he would try it on Legolas instead gave him a sense of rightness.  _Balance_ was the word that came to mind, but he could not spare the time to consider the thought further.

It was rare that he used that particular gift. To call someone back from such a path, to bring healing to one who did not desire it, was taxing to say the least. He gave much of himself during such an act and furthermore, took much from the other participant. There was no barrier, nothing to shield one mind from the other. And while the concept of sharing his soul and strength was powerful it was also frightening.

Still, this was Legolas and Aragorn would give the last ounce of his own energy to help him. And there was no corner of his mind he would willingly hide from the elf.

“So what is there to lose?” he asked the still elf, preparing the athelas almost absentmindedly. He boiled some water and put the bowl near Legolas’ head. All of the athelas leaves, and they were few to begin with, were thrown in and gently stirred. The smell surrounded them at once. It was a sweet fragrance, but not overly so. Aragorn was always reminded of the subtle smells of spring, of grass mixed with the first flowers. Of life reawakening and blossoming once more. 

He inhaled deeply and meant to see Legolas do the same. Aragorn sat crosslegged next to Legolas’ head, but felt that there was too much distance between them. His bones protested tiredly when he laid down next to the elf. He was on his side as well, moving close to Legolas until their bodies were aligning. Their noses almost touched and so near to Legolas’ face Aragorn could see nothing but his closed eyes. He took Legolas’ good hand within his own and rested it between their chests. Satisfied with their position, he closed his eyes, breathed deeply and concentrated.

This was just like the line between consciousness and sleep: imperceptible. At one moment he was trying to let himself fall into Legolas’ mind, aware of the hard ground beneath him, of Legolas’ cold hand within his own, of the nighttime sounds all around them. And in the next moment he was elsewhere, with no memory of ground and hand and sound. There was nothing but a faint feeling of urgency, which was interrupted by a rhythmic sound in the darkness.

It came again and again, slow yet regular like a wave lapping against shore. It felt natural and when Aragorn noticed that his breathing was starting to match the sound he realized that he was indeed hearing someone breathe.

With that insight came a sound he could place more easily. A deep  _thump-thump, thump-thump_ that vibrated in his own body. A heartbeat. It was starting to lull him, but the urgency remained. He would not be here for a breath and a heartbeat, would he?

He was not, for the darkness lifted suddenly and the abrupt invasion of light, sound and smell made him stagger. He heard someone scream, absolutely unguarded, and he turned in the hope of seeing who might need his help.

Aragorn recognized the figure at once and with the realization came the memory of why he was here. There was Legolas, naked and bound, just like he had found him only hours prior. The tall orc was towering above him, swinging his whip with abandon. Whenever it fell on Legolas’ back the leather made a sickeningly wet sound. And Legolas screamed.

The rthythm of Legolas’ breath and his heartbeat, slow and steady, were still overlying the horrifying scene and the moment Aragorn took to concentrate on them was enough for the image before him to change.

The orc was holding Legolas’ left hand now and Aragorn knew instantly what he would witness. The orc took Legolas’ little finger between his own brutish hands and broke the bone in two with enough force that Aragorn wondered why the finger had not come off entirely. Again the bone broke with a sickening crunch and Legolas looked at his hand in wonder and shock, his eyes wide and disbelieving. Blood was running down his chin for he had bitten through his lip to swallow his cries.

“The ring!” The orc said, but Legolas only spat at him.

“You cannot have me,” he said in Elvish. “The Halls are waiting for me. I can all but see them.” Aragorn noted the faraway look in Legolas’ eyes and knew the elf had spoken only for his own benefit.

All the biting on his lips did not help. When the orc had reached the index finger Legolas was sobbing from his unheard cries and Aragorn had balled his hands into fists. He was just running forward, into Legolas’ mind and memory, to kill the orc as he had done in reality when the scenery changed once more.

There was an orc again, a cave, more cries and blood and broken bones. And when Aragorn looked about himself he saw a Legolas who seemed much younger. His features were not as chiselled as they were now and innocence was written plainly across his face. He strained against the bonds that held him, trying to reach someone...

Aragorn gasped at seeing the other elf. She was beautiful, even in death. Her hair was a shade darker than Legolas’, her mouth fuller and her face rounder, but she was undoubtedly his mother. They had cut her throat and had left Legolas to watch her bleed dry. The orc next to him sneered with pleasure and waved a wicked looking dagger in front of Legolas’ face.

“Now, now, little one,” it said in mock-care and placed the dagger square under Legolas’ left eye.

“Cut it out, so that I may never see your horrid face again,” the young elf said with as much bravado as he could muster. The orc seemed to take up the invitation, but Aragorn chose that moment to finally do something and rushed headlong to Legolas’ side.

Everything vanished. Everything but a young Legolas who was still chained to a wall, a bleeding cut under his eye. And Aragorn, who embraced the motionless figure, intent on never letting go. Around them was nothing.

“Shhh,” Aragorn said uselessly for in truth the elf had made neither sound nor movement. 

“Why did you do that?” Legolas asked. “Why did you come here?” His voice was devoid of emotion. 

“Because I want to keep you safe.” 

A jaded laugh was Legolas’ reply. “A little late for that.” He opened his arms as far as the bonds allowed, forcing the man to look at the abused body. Whip marks, burn marks, bleeding cuts, abrasions. No part of the elf’s body seemed untouched and he wondered how anyone could have went on after this.

“It is never too late for that.” Aragorn swallowed hard. “More than anything I would like to help you carry that burden.”

His offer was sincere and not even Legolas could rebuke that. Aragorn’s finger traced the bloody cut under Legolas’ eye once more. He felt Legolas shudder from the pain the touch caused, but Aragorn did not let up. Slowly his finger brushed away the blood and tears and in the end he looked upon Legolas’ face in wonder. The cut had vanished, as had the scar it would later become. The skin was unblemished, smooth and beautiful.

“You cannot,” Legolas said sadly, not noting the miracle that had just taken place.

“I can,” Aragorn held against him. “I did. I am here for you, only for you. Take from me. Take my strength, my hope, my faith. But more than anything, take my love. For my love for you knows know bounds and it can never wither.”

He had said it, had confessed what had been on his mind for long years now and the admission gave him a sense of peace and freedom. For that feeling only it had been worth it. There was none of the embarassment he had expected and had he known admitting his love would feel like this he would have done it long ago.

Aragorn looked into Legolas’ eyes, searching for an unspoken reply. It came, an instantaneous acceptance of his offer. There was joy in Legolas’ eyes, something Aragorn had never seen in the elf’s clear gaze before.

He embraced Legolas and felt the elf respond. Not only bodily did he draw nearer to the man, but he let his mind reach out as well. And Aragorn felt Legolas take what he had offered. He was drinking in the man’s hope and strength with desperate need. The assault made Aragorn’s vision waver, but he kept giving, kept offering. Minutes, hours they sat like this. Embracing, sharing and healing the elf. And soon nothing but love remained between them.

Aragorn came awake feeling drained. Every bone in his body seemed to ache and a persistent knocking had taken up residence in his head. Still, he had never felt better for in the moment he had opened his eyes he had seen Legolas gaze at him. His eyes were open and aware and their blue seemed very bright in the low light of morning. What was even more amazing was the fact that the faint scar under his eye had vanished. Like it had done in the dream it was gone completely, leaving Legolas’ face perfect and beautiful.

Well, if one did not count the bit lip that was.

Aragorn reached out tentatively to touch the delicate skin under Legolas’ eye, not quite sure whether the elf would allow such an action now that he was awake and lucid. He was not reprimanded, though, and Aragorn was just pondering a bolder advance when Legolas beat him to it.

His right hand reached for Aragorn’s face and the man held still, not even breathing for fear he might scare the elf away. Legolas’ slender hand came to rest on Aragorn’s cheek and his finger gently caressed the ranger’s rather stubbly skin.

“Just the way I imagined it,” Aragorn sighed in bliss, closing his eyes to better enjoy the touch.

Legolas quirked an eyebrow in question. “Mhm?”

Aragorn had to smile at the memory. “Your fingertips are soft. I always hoped they would be.”

Legolas laughed and his whole face was transformed. He leant in further, hoping to catch Aragorn’s lips with his own when a voice reached them from not too far away.

“There’s a fire up ahead. I think we’ve found them.” The voice sounded rather breathless, but it was still undeniably Gimli who had spoken the words.

Behind their protective boulder, Aragorn made a face. “We are no longer alone.”

“So?” Legolas leant in and covered Aragorn’s mouth with his own, taking the kiss he had longed for ever since meeting the man.

**Rivendell, TA 3018, December 24 th, evening continued**

They sat long under the rising moon, using the cover of darkness to speak of all the things that needed to be said between them. Legolas had not come back to his spot by the treeline and neither Arwen nor Aragorn could guess where he had run off to.

“Where do you think Legolas went?” Aragorn wondered aloud. 

“Maybe he is watching us from afar, wishing to be in my stead.” She kissed his brow and there was amusement in her eyes when Aragorn looked around wildly, trying to see in the dark. 

She swatted a hand at him. “Do not be paranoid, I was just joking.”

“He would have no reason to spy on us,” Aragorn said with conviction earning himself a frown from the lady by his side.

“I tell you again, you misread him. He is not as aloof or ignorant as you think him to be.” Arwen paused, trying to think of a way to convince Aragorn. “He has always taken an interest in you.”

Disbelief was written plainly across Aragorn’s face. “I can count on one hand the occasions on which we have spoken. He never seemed overly pleased to be in my company. I could never shake the impression that he would rather be alone.”

“Being alone is what he knows best. It is safe, because he cannot get hurt. Memories haunt him. He tends to keep to his own woods, you know that. And yet he is here.” Arwen let the statement hang, willing Aragorn to come to his own conclusions. In the end, she huffed in frustration when the man beside her remained silent.

“He came because of you,” she said to him with the faint sound of annoyance in her voice that suggested she was quite appalled at his lack of intelligence in that regard. Aragorn only frowned.

Arwen sighed dramatically and turned to Aragorn, looking into his eyes and speaking slowly, to give the man time to understand each of her words. “He came because of you. He pledged his life to the fellowship because he wanted to be close to you. He fears harm will come to you on this journey and by being by your side he hopes to keep you safe. Why do you think he defended you at the council? How do you think he even knew who you really were?”

Arwen paused, urging Aragorn to come up with an answer, but there was none he could give. In truth, he had wondered how Legolas could have known his legacy when it was such a well-guarded secret. However, it was not a secret worth keeping now, so it mattered not to him.

“He asked me, Aragorn. All those years ago, after you two met in Laketown, he asked me who you really were. He would not believe you were just any human child my father had taken in. ‘He is something more,’ he said. ‘He carries himself like royalty. He is courageous and brave and loyal to a fault. And totally unaware of his charms.’ Those were his words. Do not tell me he is not interested in you Aragorn, for it is not true. He is just scared. If you can get past his fears, his love can be yours.”

Arwen’s admission had opened a door in his mind that he had left tightly closed for countless years, never daring to look what lay in the room behind. Her candid speech left Aragorn’s thoughts whirling with possibilities and hopes he had never dared to admit to himself. He looked to where they had last seen the prince and tried to imagine what it would be like to have Legolas’ love.

“Your destiny will find you on this quest, Aragorn. In more ways than one.” With those parting words Arwen kissed his cheek and stood, leaving the man to sit alone in the darkening wood. He stayed long to ponder his fate and future before he left as well, to get what sleep he could before the fellowship would depart the next day. And if someone, a Mirkwood prince maybe, had observed him leave, he would have seen a new resolve in the man’s step.

_\- The End_

_(March 2008)_


End file.
